


Hands Up (Got My Eyes Facing Down)

by SouthernBird



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anxiety, Betrayal, Cliffhangers, Derogatory Language, Future Fic, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Keith and Shiro are Messed Up Over Feelings, Lance-centric, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stress Training, Very Slight on All Implications, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Gone is the blue armor, the soft tones of water itself along with the purity of white; in its place, black with a darker, sinister blue that glows in the near darkness of the corridor, and an emblem along Lance’s chest armor that shows, all the same, that Lance is no longer theirs-- he's Lotor's.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have honestly been in a bit of an writing slump until the most recent events happened: [RachelHuey88](http://rachelhuey88.tumblr.com/) reminded me why and what I love to write with her kind gifts of Shance/Lance (spoiler it's Shance/Lance), Voltron Season 3 trailer was leaked from Wondercon, and [HardlyNotNever](https://hardlynotnever.tumblr.com/) (Cosumosu) posted this gorgeous [Dark!Lance](https://hardlynotnever.tumblr.com/post/159093277080/lovely-ama-commissioned-me-to-draw-darklance) along with several Lancelot arts that really drove the need for this home.
> 
> I needed to get this out of my system, so I hope you enjoy! Thanks to the above for the inspiration!

It had been months since Lance had forcibly been taken away from the maws of Team Voltron, and if their imaginations had run wild, they simply fell short at the atrocities that the young man must have suffered, the levels of hell endured while Lance had waited on bated breath for rescue. 

 

What once was their Blue Paladin, the Heart of their team, stands before them as a bitter symbol of their failure, a grand trophy to win in their efforts to end the war while also acting as formidable obstacle to face in the final arcs of their war against the Galra. Shiro stands there with only his right hand at his side for his protection and as a comrade in arms, Keith himself revealing a heartbrokenness that shatters this grisly aura that Lance reeks of now. 

 

Gone is the blue armor, the soft tones of water itself along with the purity of white; in its place, black with a darker, sinister blue that glows in the near darkness of the corridor, and an emblem along Lance’s chest armor that shows, all the same, that Lance is no longer theirs, that he is the dreaded realization that they begged every star to never occur—. 

 

Lance is Lotor’s, a possession and a war animal bred for the sake of protecting the Prince of the Gala Empire, an eager whore with claws and with fangs, poised to pounce and go for their poor hapless throats. 

 

Shiro, God, he can barely look, can barely stomach what he’s seeing; it has truly been so long since he’s seen Lance, since those pretty blues with shades like cobalt glass looked at him with admiration and hope for attention, since Lance called for him in such an eager tune that it would rip what’s left of the former Champion into threadbare shreds. 

 

Keith, however, feels fire licking into his veins, an everlastingly short temper flaring to life after wasting so much time searching their maps, screaming at enemies and torturing them in his (disapproved) solo runs. At first, hell, it was the worst, having to learn the weak points of Galra anatomy, learn where the pain flared highest and sang loudest. The blood and screams still haunt Keith from the earlier days of his tactile art, nightmares intermeshed with Lance’s own voice whenever sleep came to grant him what little peace it could. 

 

Time, however, dulls all intentions, and the curses from bloodied mouths were simply a part of the ritual, simply nothing more than just a part of the show. The Red Paladin knows well the colors that Galra bleed, and none of those colors are _blue._

 

But, with Lance there, that smirk so unbefitting those once-sunny features… it reels those screams in their horrific splendor once more, a cacophony of victims that met the end of Keith’s blade. 

 

The most unsightly part of their encounter in the last corridor to the main bridge where Prince Lotor waits are the bruising evidences of love bites along Lance’s jaw and neck, obviously the Prince’s work since in recent days, the Paladins along with their Princess and Coran have recovered the files surrounding Lance’s whereabouts and his ‘title’ within the Empire’s rankings. 

 

A pet, nothing more than a sex slave at first that rose to become an assassin at the beck and call of the illustrious and charming Prince himself. The only comfort Shiro can claim in it all is that, at least, Lance did not know the arena, did not have to slaughter innocent prisoners for the sake of sport and of entertainment. For once, Shiro is thankful he endured it all on his own, that he knows the snap of bone and the searing sight of flesh and cartilage, for he alone should ever feel the nips of cold whispers along the nape of his neck from the carnage he himself created. 

 

Shiro’s hands are bloodstained, yet now he sees the drips from Lance’s, the sight churning bile in his gut and gripping forlornly at his heart. It’s disgustingly sweet, how they can share this detriment of sin, this burden of lives that were taken by their own bare hands. 

 

The guilt does not seem to bear on Lance’s shoulders, though, does not weigh him down **to** the cores of planets or down to the depths of stars, not like how Shiro’s shoulders feel, not like how Keith’s spine feels. 

 

Keith and Shiro share a glance, a glimpse of comprehension on a level that only them as soldiers that have fought and have lost as they have would begin to understand, but it’s a moment that does not elude Lance’s perception. 

 

“Scared? You should be,” is sweetly cooed to the two Paladins as Lance steps— no, saunters towards them with precision only attributed to his training, forced or not, like a snake after its most desired meal, like a shark approaching easy prey. 

 

Keith likens it more to a lioness on the hunt, stealthy and omnipotent, acting under the necessity to placate her lion who watches with his proud mane and his wise eyes. 

 

It’s sickening, revolting that Keith has to witness those hips sway in the name of pleasing Lotor, has to feel the burn of those eyes on himself; he’d rather wither against the heat of a lone sun and die, but the heat itself is what carries him through the next millisecond, though infinitesimal it may be, to brandish his Bayard and form his sword. 

 

Lance or not, this thing before them only wears Lance’s skin, only sings in siren timbers in Lance’s voice— the proof is in the air around them, toxic with this beast that could never be _Lance._

 

Once Paladin or not, this is the face of the enemy, the last testament to a soon-to-be Emperor that will fall before he even sniffs at the prospect of his father’s throne. 

 

“Keith!” is all that rings in the ruins of his thoughts, a flash of red rushing towards the Galra (it’s so heavy with the hint of poison on his tongue, Galra, fucking Galra, _Lotor’s whore_ , they’re all the same as him and the rest of the universe, made of star dust and cosmos and yet—) clad opponent before them in the hopes to engage a fight that will deter and will wear Lance down. 

 

Keith’s rage, though a force of nature all in itself, is a force that is as predictable as ever, Lance must think, with the low chuckle that echoes in the corridor before the bit of light that lingers above their heads go out with a snap like noise, leaving nothing but the soft glows of armor and the sounds of a scuffle. 

 

Shiro feels his throat close, something tight forming along the passage that blocks his desperately needed breath because he’s panicked now, hearing clashes of metal and, oh, God, something _snaps_ and Keith is yelling, nothing more than Shiro can do to hope that his arm will light the battleground of Lance’s choosing enough to engage in a fight— but Lance is laughing, almost childlike if it weren’t for how damn maniacal it sounds, in time with approaching footsteps from Shiro’s back—. 

 

“I could not allow such a beautiful sight tobe seen by foolish, undeserving eyes, could I now, Champion?” is purred in his ear, Shiro’s helmet having taken a brutal collision from when they infiltrated the main ship of Lotor’s fleet. It was a half-assed attempt on Keith’s and Shiro’s part, really, Pidge and Hunk having provided as much support as possible with the Blue Lion still in her hangar, inoperable since Lance was ripped out of her cockpit by none other than the bastard behind Shiro himself.

 

Shiro had heard Lance’s screams over their intercoms, his pleas for aid that was coming as quickly as it could after an ambush that left some of the lions in need for extensive repair much like Blue herself then, the sharp warps of metal shrieking in his ears.

 

He dreamt about it in the rolls of cyclical insanity for so many nights that Shiro nearly went mad himself, finding himself drenched in cold sweats during the endless training hours he spent before Keith began to join him. 

 

They could never sleep right after that, none of them could. 

 

(It was evident in Hunk’s sallow expression from over across Blue’s hangar after limping to safety, jaw forever set in a silent, ever rising storm that may match or upend Keith’s in the end when it clashes, thunders and crashes into whoever is dumb enough to be in the war path. It was seen in shaking fists and frustrated tears as Pidge stalked into her work room, grabbing at tools and small equipment to throw it against walls as she screamed and sobbed hours into the first night because if Lance hadn’t taken the brunt of the firing squad for her, then…

 

The worst of them all, surely though, was Coran, with his long face and tired voice after spending every waking moment searching the maps and scanning any intel that the team found amongst the Galra fleets that were then floating debris once all was said and done, as if Lance being gone was a defeat that stole any of his usual humor. He was listless, a quieter form of himself that was more shadow the corpulence, a wandering specter to aimlessly walk the halls of the castle in hopes of an echo or two of something stolen away.)

 

It’s a matter of a swift turn that locks Lotor’s own weapon against Shiro’s blazing arm, the glow faint despite the ferocity that Shiro feels beating like hummingbirds inside his chest, their steel feathers ripping at his lungs in their fervency, but damn it all, Lotor is a dead man walking, as far as the Black Paladin is concerned. 

 

A snort, a snerk of a dripping arrogance that invokes the image of beating that face into the ground with his own fist as Lotor croons, “isn’t he beautiful? Beautiful before, yes, but, _now,_ Champion, he is perfection in every way, nothing like you saw in him…” 

 

There’s a shift in their tense stance, force underlying force, until Lotor sneers, all teeth and victory, as he tells Shiro, “oh, but, Champion… he is especially perfect as my _queen._ ” 

 

Thunder pounds in Shiro’s ears, a river of nothing but righteous wrath rushing through in smoky ires that swathes his limbs in the hope that that this may kill him on this day,  but at least he isn’t dying _alone_. 

 

Shiro hopes they’ll bury him somewhere nice after spitting on Lotor’s grave, after all.

 

He has to get there though, to that promised land of freedom for all if not just for his own battered, war worn soul; a push, a shift of feet and Shiro goes on the offensive, ready to smite, his arm glowing with justice. Justice, though, in only half the sense, more hatred all the same, the hatred of what this Prince’s people have done to him, everything that he has slowly relived when he scrapes at the scabbed over pieces of whatever his mind blocked to protect and to mend. 

 

It’s shoddy, but it’s more than enough to drive this burning will towards the end, that cataclysm that will jump start Voltron’s victory and have peace reign in its glorious ivory splendor again. 

 

The columns that Shiro has erected, though, with his swift kicks and curving dodges, fall short when Keith falls silent on the other end of the ship’s main corridor, the last sound a grunt after a boisterous blunt pounding. Human or whatever he is now, he is battled charged, more in tune with the movements of his body and their endeavoring motions to never detect the next variable that undoes the knot around the Galra’s noose. 

 

Lance is behind him, reeling him back with a near simply flick of his hand, a better fighter in the dark than ever in the light. 

 

The glow along Lance’s neck is enough, dimly lit gaze fixed on him, blues full of disdain and, dare he say, heartbreak? 

 

“Now, now, Lance…” Lotor hums, his own armor glowing in the recesses of the blackness that pervade and consume, that seems to swim in his blurring vision, “no need to hurt your little prize. You wanted him so badly, didn’t you?”

 

The expression, oh, it warps into something sadder, less bite and more blue, leaves Shiro’s heart missing a beat before it slows down with the chilling discovery of a secret that should have stayed behind locked doors and hidden keys. Yet, here he is, watching his once teammate seem so torn by this turn of events despite being the one to perpetrate it all with his meddling. 

 

The command that comes next is nothing short of bridled pride and a tinge of jealousy, one that shakes Shiro to his core when he realizes, oh _shit_ , Keith is down, hopefully, he prays, just unconscious, but his life isn’t in Lotor’s hands. 

 

It’s in Lance’s hands which were once shaking with the joy of life itself, with the eagerness to be useful, with the ideas of grandeur that convoluted themselves around one Takashi Shirogane. 

 

Those hands are now firm, with darker pleasures a furthering determination than admiration ever could be. 

 

“Go ahead, my dear treasure… do as you wish.” 

 

The hesitation is evident after Lotor curls an arm around Lance’s small waist, digs his fingers into the black suit to grope the flesh of his hip, but it fades into dusty wafts as Lance raises his rifle, a contrived piece of Galra technology fashioned after his Bayard. 

 

The former Champion expects a gunshot, a finishing blow at the end of the rifle; rather, the shot never comes, and is just something that might be worst than execution at the end of a failed mission. 

 

“Stand up. Hands up. Eyes down.” 

 

It’s appalling that his once soldier would even dare make such a statement, spit it out with such resentment and authority that it almost urges the anger again because they were going to take Lance _home,_ not leave him here, not abandon him in the main bastion of the Empire where Lotor could do as he pleases. 

 

But, ah, that wavering tone, that end of something is what soothes the heat, allows Shiro to think this through because there is also another to think about, Keith laying dormant and defeated just feet away from him. This moment must be a a burden, a nipping pain that tugs at his heartstrings because, Lance, doesn’t he see? Keith worried and fretted, felt the all-burning anger that came with Lotor’s invasion of one of their own, especially after just receiving the leader of the helm back to the fold. 

 

Surely he will see, he will come to understand that he is a good toy for a Prince that has his father’s crown a little too early, and the reign will fall all the same with the trumpets sounding as the columns of the failed Empire crumble and fall. 

 

Until then, Lance is still waiting, as if imparting the last of his mercies that Lotor has permitted him to have because time surely is no longer of the essence, three Paladins captured like white flags unheeded while one is playing for the enemy’s keeps.

 

For Lance, Shiro’s heart howls because he will do it, as Lance would do the same for any of them, so Shiro’s hands go up and his eyes turn down.    


End file.
